


lines

by sweggscellent



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Blowjobs, M/M, Underage Drinking, drug cw, maybe a lil angst ??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 02:34:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1328683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweggscellent/pseuds/sweggscellent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just the two of you out here on this tightly-cramped porch. Behind you, past the sliding doors that lead to this tiny patio, is a group of people playing beer pong, but it’s less beer pong and more whatever-shitty-nameless-liquor-we-found-lying-around pong, and you could join them, but there’s no point to that. Not with Marco here, the heat radiating from his arm next to yours the only thing keeping you warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	lines

**Author's Note:**

> yeehaw ladies and gents  
> recommended listening includes black out days by phantogram and together by the xx.

Your heart beats fast.

You’re the one who invited Marco here. You asked him to come to this party, citing your own loneliness and the fact that he never does anything interesting on the weekends anyway as your reasons for dragging him along, though you both knew those were half-lies at least.

It’s your sophomore year of college. You weren’t roommates last year; Marco didn’t even go to this school, but for a year there was this burning ache in your chest and it was hard for Marco’s name to even pass your lips, except in the dark of night when it was wrenched out in a blur of pleasure and heartache and nobody else would hear. He must have felt that same hollowness (after being best friends since second grade, it would be hard not to) because two weeks before the end of your second semester, Marco announced he would be transferring to your school.

But that’s all beside the point.

It’s just the two of you out here on this tightly-cramped porch. Behind you, past the sliding doors that lead to this tiny patio, is a group of people playing beer pong, but it’s less beer pong and more whatever-shitty-nameless-liquor-we-found-lying-around pong, and you could join them, but there’s no point to that. Not with Marco here, the heat radiating from his arm next to yours the only thing keeping you warm.

You pull out a pack of Marlboros and slide one out with a flick of your wrist, offering it to Marco. It’s unusual for him to smoke, and you know he otherwise wouldn’t, but you’re here, and it’s the environment, and his long fingers are pulling the slender cylinder from your pack. You pop one between your lips too, drawing a lighter out and lighting your own cigarette.

Marco looks to you expectantly, but it’s probable that you’ve had a bit more to drink than you thought, because you slip that lighter back in your pocket and lean in instead. You lean in until the cherry of your cigarette bumps the unlit end of your best friend’s, and he inhales, brown eyes locking with yours as his cigarette lights weakly.

He doesn’t pull away. He breathes smoke out through his nose and you pull your cigarette from your lips to exhale hot against his mouth, gazes still locked. He doesn’t flinch, just takes another pull from his own cigarette, and when he breathes out next, it’s around a sentence.

“Nice weather tonight.”

It’s so very unlike Marco, and he didn’t flinch when he breathed in that acrid smoke, didn’t flinch when you breathed against him in tandem, but there’s that waver in his voice, and your heart beats fast.

You ash your cigarette.

“Yeah,” you say, and the word sounds distant to your own ears. You pull the slim stick from between Marco’s fingers, rubbing the cherry against the railing next to both of you, and he doesn’t question it. You take another drag and before you can question yourself, you drag Marco down to your height, breaching those two extra inches Marco stopped teasing you about after your freshman year of high school, and you press your open mouth against his open mouth, exhaling smoke as he inhales.

You have never kissed your best friend before. Your best friend, Marco Bodt, with his haphazard freckles and his almost-doofy braces-straightened grin and his warm brown eyes and long, long fingers. Your best friend, Marco Bodt, with his two-drag cigarette smoking and his alcohol abstinence and his tolerance of you. Your best friend, Marco Bodt, who is turning you around and taking your cigarette to throw it over the porch railing and pressing you back against that same railing, gentle but insistent, with his smoky sweet mouth against yours and his long, long fingers sliding into your belt loops to pull you that much closer.

You have never kissed your best friend before, but you take this in, letting Marco kiss you, letting Marco slide his tongue into your mouth, and your heart beats so fast.

“Jean,” Marco whispers against your lips, and you make this affirmative sound in your throat, but it comes out more like a whine, a plea.

“Is this okay?” he whispers again, pulling back, and you want to ask him what the hell, of course this is okay, Marco. Why wouldn’t this be okay? We aren’t even doing anything.

But instead you just nod and you pull him back in, a little more fervent now, with your arms around his neck and the alcohol haze in your brain burning away to be replaced with this Marco haze, and he kisses you back just as feverishly, the tips of his fingers dipping under your shirt to brush against your too-hot skin.

You’re a little sloppy and you can feel it in the way Marco’s lips are sliding a little too wetly against your own, but Marco makes no mention of that and keeps kissing you, his tongue sliding against yours and his warm breath hitting your cheek.

You pull back then, laughing a bit because you’re drunk and you’re kissing your best friend, and Marco laughs a bit too, maybe a little confused, and you swipe your thumb against his lips. It’s a bizarrely sweet gesture, but you tell your drunken mind that you’re doing it to wipe away the excess saliva, because that excess saliva is supposed to be gross but it’s just turning you on that much more.

“Let’s go back to our room,” you say, and it’s not the first time that statement has left your mouth sounding provocative, but it is the first time it’s been intentional.

Marco nods, grabbing your hand to lead you back through the apartment full of grinding strangers and loud music and the smell of weed and alcohol, back out into the cool night, and you’re thankful he’s the one who knows you well enough to know he needed to be the one to drive here.

It’s a long drive back even though it really only lasts something like three minutes, and the walk up the stairs and down the hall is long, too, and Marco takes too long with his keys, and once you’re both finally in the room you have him on the bed in no time and you’re straddling his waist, kissing him, drawing these soft sighs and half-whimpers from his beautiful freckled throat.

You shift your way down his thin, lean body slowly, pausing every so often for necessary evils like removing Marco’s shirt and shucking off your shoes and jacket.

When you reach Marco’s hips, the fog in your mind has cleared a bit (the alcohol-induced one, at least; the Marco fog has been there for quite some time, longer than just tonight), and you lift your wandering mouth to ask, “Is this alright?”

Marco’s chest is heaving, and your heart is beating fast, and he cards a hand through his thick, disheveled hair.

“Yeah,” he says breathily, throat probably as constricted as your own, and you press another kiss on the inside of his hip, beside the bone.

“Good,” you murmur into Marco’s soft skin, and it comes out dark and possessive, and that’s not really what you intended, but Marco lets out this airy sound that goes right to your dick, so you don’t try to cover your tone.

You make quick work of tugging Marco’s jeans halfway down his thighs, impatient, before you’re mouthing at his erection through his boxer-briefs, and he lets out a long, low sound that wrecks any pre-conceived notion of what you’d hoped he would sound like if you ever got the chance to do this. It feels as though waves of heat are rushing under your skin, weakening parts of you like your knees and wrists, and your stomach is fluttering.

You trace the shape of Marco through his underwear, and when you glance up across his body, you almost have to look away again. He’s this strange combination of beautiful and erotic and innocent, lying under you with lines created from the blinds over your windows cast over his torso and his arm thrown over his eyes, mouth open and panting.

You’re not new to sex, but as cliché as it sounds and feels to you, Marco almost makes you feel like a virgin again, and you wonder briefly if he is before quickly discarding that thought. He’d have told you about any sexual encounters he’d had previous (a token of being best friends) and even so, it wouldn’t matter, because now it’s you tugging his boxer-briefs down over his freckled, trembling thighs, and it’s you licking a line up his cock, and it’s your name on the next breath that leaves his mouth.

You know, at least, you’ve never loved any of the dicks whose dicks you’ve sucked before.

You suck in a breath through your nose before dragging your nails up Marco’s thighs and wrapping your wet lips around the head of his cock and he inhales sharply and you watch him; you watch as his arm leaves his face so he can grip the fitted sheet he’s lying on as his back arches ever so slightly. You pull off long enough to tell Marco to watch you – because you do, you want him to watch his cock disappear between your lips, want him to know it’s him, it was always him – and he does, bashfully, his cheeks stained with a flush visible even in the dark.

You focus on his heavy-lidded eyes and the thick weight of his cock on your tongue as you lave against him, your face burning. You hollow your cheeks, delving downward, thankful for your relative lack of a gag reflex as your nose presses into dark curls. You breathe him in (and maybe that’s a little creepy, but it’s you, and this is Marco) and then you swallow once, twice. Marco moans and sighs with your motions, his fingers weaving into your hair, and your grip tightens about his thighs, nails digging in. He starts to pull his hands away, probably taking that as a warning, but you dig your nails in further and Marco takes the hint, tugging your hair gently.

You moan against him and he moans right back, breathy and _Marco,_ and you pull back for a moment to pop a finger in your mouth and get it slick enough before diving back down and circling that finger around Marco’s most sensitive area.

His breath hitches, and you know he’s got to be close, and you slide your finger inside of him slowly, so slowly, and his breaths come faster and he’s tugging insistently at your hair as your tongue drags wetly up his cock. You thrust gently once, twice, three times before glancing up at him again and watching his face as you suck him down fully one last time.

Marco comes with a shout and a sharp curve of his back, clenching around your middle finger as his come slides thick down your throat. You thrust into him with your hand a few last times, fucking him through it, and then you’re pulling off and out.

Your heart beats fast.

He lies there, streaked by shadow and streetlight filtering in through the window, and he’s your best friend, Marco Bodt, with his haphazard freckles and his disheveled hair and his nervous, quaking smile, and his long, long fingers burying in your hair to pull you forward for a kiss.

You taste like him (you taste like a brothel, more like, all smoke and booze and come) but he doesn’t mind, just kisses you until you’re dizzy and it feels like you’re just as drunk as you were an hour ago.

And when you pull away, you can’t find your words, even with those brown eyes watching you, hopeful but not expectant, so you just kiss him once more and fit yourself against him as he shucks his jeans and underwear all the way off.

You fall asleep that way, with Marco’s naked body tucked into your half-clothed one, and you wonder if he wonders if you’re even going to remember this tomorrow, and your heart beats fast.


End file.
